


Lightbringer

by monicawoe



Category: Lucifer (Comic)
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-17
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-05-07 05:01:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5444240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monicawoe/pseuds/monicawoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The light burns the Lilim, but it doesn't burn Mazikeen. It never has.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lightbringer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sunsmasher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunsmasher/gifts).



The Lilim, they say, are born of darkness, made of darkness. There's a truth to it; the weaker Lilim shy from the light, the darkness in their veins a gift from their mother, to shield them from the falsehood of the Host.

Mazikeen was coating the streets of the Silver City in blood long before the rest of them crawled out of the muck. The light burns the Lilim, but it doesn't burn Mazikeen. It never has.

There are of course different forms of light: the light of the Sun that gives life to the humans and plants of the world, the consuming light of fire and the light of the angels. The Host think themselves celestial, but Mazikeen has fought them enough to know they're more fire than sun. All, except Lucifer.

When they couple, their bodies become more grounded, more flesh than will and ether—and that may be the thing that pulls them together time after time. Carnal pleasures are carnal, after all, and when she's flesh, Mazikeen feels more than she was ever meant to. Lucifer's touch is addictive, his light a lingering thing. It flows like icy rivers in her veins, each touch, each kiss echoes inside of her, like her whole being, her soul, is trying to evade his light. But it's a reflex, nothing more, and she forces herself to still, lets his fingers press against her veins, lets the cold fire seep down beneath the pores and into her bones.

His tongue traces its way across her breast and he pulls her nipple in, her back arching as his teeth close over the tender flesh. Her back arches, she digs her nails into the small of his back, runs them up and out to his shoulders, traces over the scabbed bumps covering the severed wings, the jagged edge of the fractured scapula shifting underneath. He moans beneath her, the sound vibrating through her middle. Light shimmers underneath his skin and for a moment she sees them--a faint echo of his wings as they once were, whole and pristine and nearly as beautiful as he thinks himself to be. She drags him up higher, bites down by the join of his neck and shoulder. He cries out again and the manifest-memory of his wings erupt into flame, the feathers now sun flares, bursting liquid heat around her fingertips.

He collapses against her, stilled, but only for a moment before working his way slowly lower. His lips move between her legs, tongue tracing the edges of her folds. She moves against him, pushing higher and he clamps down, suction and heat until she feels her blood pooling there, pulsing like a heart. He stays there, bringing her deeper and deeper into her own flesh until she cries out, pleasure tearing out of her like a storm.

She falls back, sated and content, but holds onto that feel of flesh and blood, human in a way she hates and yet can't resist. It's what brings her back to him, she thinks, keeps them orbiting around each other.

Together they transcend the world and its limits, something holy and fallen something fallen made holy. The creator never dreamed of this and _that_ , that is what makes it perfect.

#

She is the Morningstar now. His gift to her, his curse, his goodbye. The power flows through her, no longer foreign but a part of her, the pure light of creation twisted around her own dark matter—an impossible double helix. But she doesn't feel torn anymore. She doesn't feel incomplete. But that longing she felt moments after his passing isn't wholly gone. She loved him, as much as she could love, and he loved her, though he'd never call it that. And it's only now that she understands why.

He couldn't love because he was never capable of it. His kind had always claimed to deal in absolutes, but compared to him they were all grey. He wasn't just an angel, he was the first—the one made to go off script—designed to overhaul the world, to start not a new chapter, but a whole new book. All his memories are hers now, so she knows the paths he walked, knows what he was offered, what his creator offered him. And instead of claiming that mantle forever, he tried his hand at creation once and called it a day. He never wanted to be God, he existed only to challenge the need for Him. And when given the option, he chose the Void. He found a way to leave the script forever of his own free will. But he couldn't do so as the Lightbringer. Power that size couldn't just disappear from the world. So he gave it to her. One last gift.

And Mazikeen, as a Lilim, never cared much for love either. What they shared was a melding of mutual respect and an appreciation for pleasure and pain in equal parts. And those, they both understood.

With power enough to shape the world, she decides to rest, and the world itself instantly slows, giving her all the time she needs. She wills herself back to where they last kissed, lays down on the sand and it shapes itself into a bed beneath her, lifting her up until the stars are close enough to trace. She lets her eyes blur, paints a crude outline of his shape in the air, starlight trailing from her fingertips as she makes him how she remembers, wings and all. She pushes just enough power into the image to give it form and purpose until the thing moves of its own volition, a puppet of light, a being that exists by her will alone. She threads her fingers through its feather-fine hair and grabs hold, pushing it down between her legs. Its tongue laps between her folds and she pushes up against it, the recall of Lucifer's own serpentine touch mimicked perfectly, just like she remembers.

The sky roils as she cries out, and the light-puppet bursts, shattering into stars and moons. She watches him drift apart until the sky is ordinary again.

She wonders idly what would happen to her if she willed herself to drift apart just like the light, and as she thinks it, so it comes to pass. Her senses reach out and out as she spreads her consciousness through the sky, out beyond the atmosphere, the system, reaching out from this galaxy to the next and the next and the next. And there, at the very edge of existence she feels the hollowness of the Void on the other side. She coalesces there, presses herself against the impossible wall between reality and its mirror.

And for a moment, she thinks she can sense him, there on the other side, fingertips aligned with hers. She pushes more will against the wall, feels reality bend under her touch. Bend but not break. Even she doesn't have that much power. Neither did he.

She didn't love him, not really, but his absence gnaws at her. So she leaves the edge and travels back to somewhere familiar, back to a bar, back to faces that smile at her, ones that consider her a friend.

Once she was Mazikeen, daughter of Lilith, daughter of Ophur, War Leader of the Lilim in Exile. Now she is the Morningstar; the light is hers to wield, to inflict upon others how she sees fit. But for now she carries it within, and remembers.


End file.
